


Lessons in Loyalty

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Ultraviolet (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-20
Updated: 2007-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-25 05:26:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1633871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael doesn't need a lecture about loyalty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lessons in Loyalty

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Lasha

 

 

Lesson 1: A loyal friend is there for you when he'd rather be anywhere else.

 

The music of the club throbs rhythmically to the flashing of the strobe lights above, creating the illusion of a visible beat pulsing through the air. Mike finds the whole atmosphere tedious, and this pathetic facade of another world causes his hair to stand on end and his brain to pound. But it's Eric's birthday, and friends are required to show up on friends' parties. Not that Eric would notice.

Mike glances over to the dance floor in time to see Eric make a spectacularly improbable grinding motion with his crotch. The girl he's dancing with doesn't seem to mind, and her mini skirt rides up to reveal the pale flesh of her buttocks. Mike turns his head, uncomfortable. He silently calculates how much longer he has to stay before he can go back to his dormitory and collapse. Maybe forty-five more minutes? An hour tops.

"Hey, Mike. Michael!"

Mike glances to his left and sees Eric standing at his shoulder, shouting to be heard over the music. Eric seems a little annoyed, and Mike starts to wonder if maybe Mini-Skirt did object to the grinding. Then he notices the man clinging to Eric for support.

"How much have you had to drink tonight?" Eric shouts in his ear.

"Not much."

"What? Speak up."

"Not much!" Mike practically screams. God, he doesn't want to be here.

"Good," Eric shoves the man into Mike's arms. Mike stumbles a bit before he gets a hold on bony hips and a shoulder. "Take Jack home, will you? Thanks."

Before Mike can formulate a proper response, Eric is moving back toward the dance floor where Mini-Skirt waits for him with her hands on her hips. Sighing, Mike looks down and meets the blearily stare of pale blue eyes.

"You better not vomit in my car."

Lesson Two: Each friend represents a world in us, a world possibly not born until they arrive, and it is only by this meeting that a new world is born.

 

"Sergeant Colefield meet Sergeant Beresford, your new partner." Detective Inspector Leigh indicates the man sitting in the chair opposite his desk.

Beresford stands up, offering his hand to Mike, the corners of his pale blue eyes wrinkling with his smile. Mike's focus tunnels straight into them. He remembers flashing lights and the stale smell of alcohol.

"I know you," Mike says, taking his hand.

Beresford lifts an eyebrow, "Oh?"

"Yeah, you vomited in my car."

"It's possible," Beresford says seriously. " I have been known to vomit in a lot of people's cars."

Mike snorts, covering his laugh. If Leigh had any reaction to this exchange, Mike wouldn't know. Later, he won't even remember the DI being in the room.

"Well, it's good to meet you properly, Beresford."

"Call me Jack."

Lesson Three: Do not follow, but walk beside.

 

They are playing the game Jack invented on one of their night shifts. It's not so much of a game as it is an activity to keep their hands busy. It started when Jack rolled Mike a small rubber ball and Mike rolled it back, and so on. Once the ball starts rolling (so to speak), the dialogue between them flows back-and-forth with the comfortable rhythm of the ball.

"You still seeing that one bird, What's-Her-Name?"

"Frances?"

"Yeah, Frannie."

"We were never really 'seeing' each other."

"Oh, so it's like that."

"God, can your brain go anywhere else?"

"It could, but I prefer it this way."

"You would."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"That you're a sex-crazy mantic and you'll die alone."

"Well, okay. That's fair."

"What about you?"

"Me?"

"No, the man sitting right next to you."

"Nah, I haven't got time."

"Still studying for the detective exam?"

"Yeah."

Jack catches the ball, and turns it in his hands thoughtfully. Mike leans back in his booth, and waits for Jack to say whatever is on his mind. The diner is typically empty for this time of night, and the smell of burning bacon makes him vaguely nauseous, but the tea and coffee is free for the police, and the tables are clean.

"Why don't you take it with me?" Jack rolls the ball back toward Mike, who catches it and rolls it back easily.

"What do you mean?"

"The detective exam, Moron."

"What? Me?"

"Oh please, everyone knows you're the smart one."

"Was that painful for you to admit just now?"

"That way we could still be partners."

This time Mike stops the easy motion of the ball. He stares at Jack, who stares right back. A moment passes between them, and stretches out. Jack's fingers tap slowly on the table; Mike tries not to stare, to keep his eyes trained on Jack's as he searches for an answer to the question he can't ask. Slowly, Jack smiles, and Mike finds himself returning the gesture.

He tosses the ball to Jack.

"Yeah. Why not?"

Lesson Four: Be careful what you use, never return it broken.

 

The dreams come with such a startling frequency now that Mike finally accepts Frances invitation for a cup of tea at her place. The first thing Mike notices when he enters her house is how different it is from Jack's flat. The books sit alphabetically in their shelves, the cushions lie in aesthetically pleasing angles against the sofa, and there's not a dirty plate or cup in sight. It's almost enough to make him bolt for the door, but Mike anxiously reminds himself that he needs to do this.

Frances politely offers him a cup of tea, and Mike receives it just as politely. There's an awkward moment of forced conversation before Frances takes the cup from his hands and kisses him.

Mike opens his mouth to her immediately and places his hands on her waist. Her body feels so small and frail, but her tongue licks inside of his mouth confidently. His kisses back as best he can.

The world spins for a moment, and Mike finds himself pinned against the kitchen counter with Frances moaning into his mouth and practically humping his thigh. Yes, this is what he needs.

Mike comes to life, his body surging against Frances's, his hands moving to cup her breasts and scratch lightly against her nipples.

"Oh, God." Frances breathes, arching against him. Mike takes this opportunity to suck the pulse he can see thrumming in her pale throat, trying to ignore how her long hair (wrong color) brushes his face. But when he feels her breasts press tightly to his chest and hears her soft moans, Mike suddenly wants to just get this over with as quickly as possible.

Sliding a hand up her thigh, Mike pushes away the layer of cotton and presses his figures into her. It's warm and too wet, but Frances shudders predictably against him. A few calculated twists and flicks with his fingers, and it's done.

"Oh, fuck, Mike." Frances says when she catches her breath. She looks up at him, smiling coyly.

In Mike's mind, Frances isn't the one panting into his neck, "We should have done that a long time ago."

Lesson Five: No person is your friend who demands your silence, or denies your right to grow.

 

Mike's leg bounces nervously under the table, as he watches Jack place his order across the room. The pub was a good choice for this: not too crowded, enough noise that no one can overhear their conversation, and (most importantly) alcohol, lots and lots of alcohol.

Jack sits across from Mike and hands him his pint. His eyes glance downward and widen.

"Whoa, what did that napkin ever do to you?"

"What?" Mike looks and sees his hands are repeatedly twisting and tearing what's left of a paper napkin. Bits of paper litter the table like soldiers fallen in the line of fire.

"Oops." Mike quickly brushes the table off, and tries to ignore how Jack's laughter makes his stomach feel. He hopes Jack won't hit him when he tells him.

"I'm glad you called." Jack says, licking foam from his fingers. Mike's leg stops bouncing for a moment, then starts up again.

"Oh?"

Jack nods and stares at Mike. His eyes are intense.

"I've got something I want to tell you."

Relief washes over Mike, relaxing muscles he didn't even know could be tense.

"Really?"

Blonde hair falls into Jack's eyes as he nods; he's been growing it out recently. Everyone at the station has given Jack crap about it, but Jack just leers about how the ladies like something to grip in their hands.

"I - oh this is difficult to say," Jack leans back and sighs. "You're gonna have a go at me for this, I know it." He smiles shyly at Mike, glancing up at him through his eyelashes.

"Why don't you just tell me, and we'll see what happens?" Mike tries to keep his voice neutrally flat as his insides dance.

"Okay." Jack takes Mike's hand in his own. "I've met a girl. She's really great. I want you to come meet her tomorrow."

Mike freezes and pulls his hand away. Jack's eyes glitter with what looks suspiciously like laughter, "You okay?"

Mike coughs into his hand, shoving everything down below the surface again. "Yeah, I'm great. Just a little surprised."

Jack smirks, but it looks a little cruel and his eyes silently dare Mike, "Your turn. What's so important we just had to meet tonight?"

Mick stumbles, "I... I'm breaking up with Frances."

Jack laughs harshly, and shakes his head. When he turns back to Mike, his eyes stare into his own, knowing and taunting.

"Yeah, sure."

Lesson Six: I consider you my blood - it doesn't come much thicker.

 

Jack is dead, but that doesn't stop him from appearing in Mike's dreams. It starts to wear on him, show in his face and in his eyes, but never in his work - he's too good for that. Harman watches him carefully, and Rice treats him like a ticking bomb. March, however, looks at him with quiet understanding, which Mike hates more than the caution and distrust.

Because when March glances at him with those sad, perceptive eyes, Mike's feels stripped bare. Like she can see all those nights he wakes up crying because his subconscious keeps finding new ways for his best friend to die in his arms. Like all those nights he wakes up hard and aching because he didn't fight Jack, but let him nuzzle into his neck and drink from him. Like she knows how he wakes up sticky and gasping because Jack pinned him against the ground and sucked him off. How, in those dreams, Jack whispers, "I always knew" into his ear.

Deep down, Mike knows March can't see those nights. She just recognizes the look of a person who's lost.

Lesson Seven: Don't ask me to leave you and turn back. I will go where you go and live where you live. Your people will be my people, and your God will be my God.

 

His ribs hurt. Probably because they are broken - along with his leg and left hand. He'd better get some serious sick pay for this.

A foot nudges Mike's ribs, causing him to gasp and fold in on himself as the pain pools in his chest. Slowly, it fades to an almost bearable ache. Sunrise is in three hours, and the tracking devise Harman insisted Mike be implemented with has been torn out of his arm and smashed some time ago. There's a gun in Mike's shoe that they forgot to search. The trouble is getting to it, but, like Jack said all those years ago, Mike always was the smart one.

"You know what your problem is, Mike?" Jack looms over him, with his hands shoved carelessly into his pockets. He looks bored, and Mike resents that. It's not his fault that his screams of agony and the sounds of his snapping bones aren't entertainment enough for good old Jack.

Mike tries to pull himself off the cold concrete, but he can't seem to make his body do much more than flop on the ground. "Well I'm not a doctor, but my best guess would be internal bleeding."

Jack blinks, surprised, before frowning and crouching down to get in Mike's face. Even as a Code V, even after death and resurrection, his eyes are still the same pale blue. Mike hates himself for caring, but he does. He probably always will.

"Your problem, although you seem to have gained a morbid sense of humor, is that you never learned how to say 'no.' That's why you're working for these people. It's not that you want to, but can't make yourself walk way. I can change that." Jack grins at him. His teeth are sharp.

"What do you want, Jack?"

Jack smile is triumphant, "We want your corporation."

"We?"

"Yes, Mike. 'We.' This thing you've gotten yourself mixed up is bigger than you know. And we need you to come work for us. Give us names. Information. Help us to stop the organization before they kill more innocent people."

Mike laughs softly, but groans as pain flares in his chest at the movement.

"What's in it for me?"

Jack 's face lights up, as if he's been waiting for this question all night. He leans close, and his hair lightly brushes against Mike's face.

"There are perks." Jack says, placing his hand on Mike's thigh. He moves even closer to whisper against Mike's ear, "I can give you what you've always wanted, Mike."

And then his lips are on Mike's, kissing him with an intensity that goes straight to his groin. Mike whimpers as Jack tilts his head and deepens the kiss until he's practically fucking Mike's mouth with his tongue. It's hot, hungry, and desperate. It's the kiss Mike has always imagined, always wanted.

Mike waits until Jack's tongue is deep inside his mouth before he does what he needs to do. There's popping sensation, and Mike tries not to gag at the strong taste of garlic.

Immediately, Jack jerks away, coughing and spiting. When he turns back, his face is twisted, ugly with fury, but Mike has his gun out.

"What the funk?"

"A empty capsule filled with Allicin inside a hollowed out molar." Mike answers as calmly as he can. He's breathing hard and the gun shakes slightly in his hand. "It was March's idea. She a very clever woman, and she knows me so well."

Jack holds out his hand and snarls, "Give me the gun."

"No." The word escapes his throat in a strangled sob, but Mike's hand is steady when he fires.

 


End file.
